Book 2: Forgotten Song
by Soledad
Summary: 2nd Boromir story. After 110 days of looking for Imladris, Boromir meets a small company of Wood-Elves who lead him the right way. Completed.
1. Chapter 1: Chance Encounter in the Woods

FORGOTTEN SONG  
by Soledad

**Disclaimer:** The characters, the context and the main plot belong to Professor Tolkien, whom I greatly admire. I'm only trying to fill in the gaps he so graciously left for us, fanfic writers, to have some fun.

**Rating:** PG – 13, for implied m/m interaction.

**AUTHOR'S NOTES:**

This is the second story of my Boromir-series, called ''Fall Before Temptation''. It describes how Boromir arrived to Rivendell and his meeting with Legolas. We'll also learn some new things about the life in Rivendell and Legolas' family in later chapters.

This story is titled so because of the song Legolas sings by seeing the valley of Imladris again. The lyrics are taken from the Book of Lost Tales, Part I, and is actually the second version of a beautiful poem called ''Kortirion Under the Trees'' by Tolkien himself. I've chosen an earlier version instead of the final one because I wanted to portray the Mirkwood-Elves (who never departed over Sea) as somewhat old-fashioned, more meticulous with traditions – or, as Glorfindel might point out, simply stubborn. Besides, I liked the second version more... The poem (or song, actually), is going to play an important role in this series, having a very deep meening for the Silvan folk.

This is a re-edited version of the original story, which originally only contained chapters 1 and 2. I broke it into chapters in order to make reading it easier. Also, I made a few minor changes where I found the pace too rushed. And, hopefully, eliminated a few nasty typos along the way. I also followed all my beta-reader's stylistical suggestions, save one – not that she wasn't absolutely right, but I've simply grown too fond of that (useless) description. g

**Dedication: **To Dwimordene, whose excellent story ''From the Other River Bank'', inspired me to write this whole series. Without her, I would never have gotten the idea of making Boromir the hero not only of a story but of a whole series. 

Also, thousand thanks to Nadja who has made this chapter enjoyable for native speakers, eliminating some of my rather ''creative'' grammatical solutions and the nasty typos.

CHAPTER ONE: CHANCE ENCOUNTER IN THE WOODS

It was the year 3018 of the Third Age of Middle-earth, the 22nd of October. Amost four months had passed by since Boromir, son of Denethor, heir of the Steward of Gondor, left the White City of his ancestors to follow an uncanny dream and find a place only the lore-masters had ever heard about. A valley in the far North where – as it was told in old legends – Elrond Half-Elven, the greatest of all lore-masters once dwelt... and maybe still did.

Long and torturous his wanderings had been, from Minas Tirith through the Gap of Rohan and alongside the Misty Mountains, for the ways had grown dark in recent years and the woods were swarming with Orcs and other foul beasts, and though many people might have heard about the house of Elrond, no one he asked was able – or ready – to tell him where it lay. Also, his heart was troubled and his mind in turmoil over the manner of his departure from Minas Tirith, loaded with bitter memories of his father and bittersweet ones of his brother.

Just before the North-East Road he was following would have reached the ancient ford at Tharbad, he had run into a small company of hunting Orcs and lost his horse during the skirmish, which made his way even more troublesome, for he was not used to trvelling afoot. But most of all he feared to lose his way, knowing only that the mysterious valley he was sent to seek out lay somewhere in the Misty Mountains.

Some Rangers of the North he had met after crossing the River Glanduin advised him to look for the ruined city of Tharbad, from where he might follow the Gwathló and then the Bruinen, and with the help of one mysterious Ranger he succeeded to reach the western slopes of the Hithaeglir, indeed, where the valley of Imladris was said to be hidden. But after that, he found himself in the unknown woods again, forlorn and helpless, without a guess where he should direct his awkward steps.

Very tired had he grown during his lonely journey, the loss of hope laying heavily on his weary heart. Nothing he had heard or seen on his straying way could give him comfort; he felt cold and starving for company, any company, for talking and laughing and jesting – even for a fight. Anything that could distract him from his gloomy thoughts.

He slept little and shallowly, yet the dreams would not stop tormenting him.

The cold, implacable face of the Lord Denethor, his father, who had sent him out on this errand demanding that he redeem himself for a love that had come to his heart, unbidden but impossible to fend off, so forbidden and disastrous that he was reluctant to admit it even to himself most of the time.

The shock and sorrow on the fair face and in the clear grey eyes of his brother when he understood why Boromir was chosen to go on this errand in his stead, though it was him, not Boromir, to whom the dreams had most often come.

The infinite sadness on the pale brow of Éowyn, the White Lady of Rohan, as she bid him her farewell after that long talk they had in bitter understanding...

All these memories came back to him in his troubled dreams, haunting him, robbing him of what little peace his restless sleep could have given.

It grew dark once again, and he admitted that he would not be able to continue his fruitless journey for the rest of the night. So, he slumped down under a huge, ancient tree, seeking what little comfort he could find among the roots, thicker than the arm of a troll might have been, leaning against the enormous trunk that several grown men could not have embraced with their joined grips, and hoped that, for once, the dreams would let him have some peace.

The forest was surprisingly quiet, as if listening to something only trees were able to hear. No birds talking, no animals moving could be heard, only the almost inaudible dance of leaves high above his head. He listened carefully, trying to decide if it was safe to fall asleep or if he should try and stay awake.

Not that he would have much of a choice, though. Exhaustion was spreading rapidly through his sore limbs like a hidden fever and he needed all his considerable willpower already, just to keep his burning eyes open. Sooner or later, he knew, he would have to submit to the needs of his strained body...

And suddenly, without as much as a faint noise of warning, they were there: strange beings, tall and slender, clad in green and brown, with great bows and full quivers across their backs, moving eerily quiet as if they were ghosts of trees long gone – or young trees, themselves, bowing slightly in a wind only trees could feel or hear. Long auburn tresses framed fair, ageless faces, woven into ceremonal braids above delicately pointed ears and held together on the nape of long, graceful necks by silver clasps wrought into the shape of leaves, flowers or butterflies. Bright eyes shone under fine, dark brows and long, dark lashes. Surreally beautiful they were, but full of strength nevertheless: half-forgotten memories of a different world that was now beond the reach of mortal Men.

In the four decades of his life, Boromir had seldom met any Elves at all. They hardly ever visited Gondor, and when they did, usually went straight to Dol Amroth and beyond that to the Havens, to leave Middle-earth forever. The last time Boromir had seen one of them he was a young boy, but he remembered them well enough to recognise an Elf when he saw one. Still, these were very different from the ones of the legends, clad in the rough garb of wood-dwelling people, not unlike that of the Rangers of the North.

_Wood-Elves_, he realized. They had to be, otherwise they would not have been able to meld with the trees so completely that not even his keen eyes could detect them, until they moved closer.

Boromir got to his feet, warily, with deliberate slowness, not wanting to agitate them. Wood-Elves were said to be an unpredictable bunch – a lot more dangerous than others of their fair kin, and many of them had presumably gone wicked during the Dark Days, allying themselves to the Nameless Evil and even serving him, for great was their bitterness about what they called 'the treason of the Noldor'.

Also, they were said to handle magic and spells and wizardry more recklessly than any other people who were _not_ actually evil, for their dwellings lay in the most dangerous parts of Middle-earth and they needed all the protection they could master.

So it seemed advisable for Boromir to handle them with the utmost care.

He took a small step towards them, spread his arms sidewise, showing that he was not carrying any weapons (not openly, at least), and bowed in a courtly manner.

''Hail, sons of the Wood'', he said. ''Is there something I might do for you?''

Their leader came forward. Young he looked, even younger than the rest of them, but an aura of authority surrounded his slender frame, clad in soft brown leather and rough green linen. Thin silver ribbons were woven into the delicate network of his auburn hair that was artfully braided away from his ears and woven together in a tight ornamental braid on the back of his head and held together by a delicately-shaped silver ring that mimicked the form of leaves. This one, Boromir saw at once, was used to give orders and be obeyed.

''We do not requre your assistance, Man of Gondor'', he answered in a soft, lyrical voice that contained considerable hidden powers nonetheless, ''But I do thank you for offering it.''

''How do you know where I come from?'' Boromir asked with a slight frown.

''The way you are clad and the way you speak gave you away'', the Elf smiled. It was a faint, thoughtful smile, full of memories. ''Besides, you carry the crest of Minas Tirith on your shield. Which Elf on Middle-earth would not recognize the White Tree of Gondor? But do tell me, good sir, what is a Southern warrior doing in the woods of the Misty Mountains? These are not your usual hunting fields, be it for deer or Orcs.''

''Very true'', Boromir agreed, ''but what my issues might be, they are my own. It would not serve my errand to discuss them openly with people I know not. Not even if they are of the Elder Kin.''

The Elf tilted his head slightly as if he were listening to something far, far away. He looked like a young tree in a light breeze. Boromir could only guess what he might have been listening to, for his own ears did not tell him anything.

''My apologies'', the Elf finally said. ''It seems that in my surprise I did forget my manners indeed. I am called Legolas Greenleaf(1), son of Thranduil, and these here are my fellow archers. We were sent out on an errand of our own from Mirkwood by the King himself.''

Boromir's foggy head jerked up in surprise. Not much was known in Gondor about Mirkwood, for the connections were broken and the news spare – nothing but the fact that Thranduil son of Oropher was its King... and had been ever since the Second Age, in fact. So if this Elf was his son, then he had to be considerably older than Boromir originally thought.

''So you are the Prince of Mirkwood?'' he asked in astonishment. 'Since when does the son of an Elf-King travel with such a small escort in these dark times?''

The Elf seemed to be surprised as well.

''How come that you know the name of my father, Man of Gondor? You cannot be a common soldier then, for few are the contacts between our kingdoms, and I have not seen any of your kin in Mirkwood in my whole life. I did not think that the Men of the South still remembered us.''

''Much is forgotten'', Boromir admitted with some regret, wishing that his brother, who always had much more interest in Elven lore than he did, were here with him at this moment, ''but the Stewards of Gondor still guard some of the old lore and wisdom. And I am Boromir, first-born son and Heir of the Lord Denethor, the six and twentieth Steward ruling in Minas Tirith.''

''And what does the Heir of Gondor's Steward seek in lands strange for him?'' Legolas asked. ''This wilderness does not suit mortal Men. Not even our kin would hunt here alone.''

Boromir hesitated, but the desire to share his deep troubles overwhelmed him. He had been on his own for so long in these strange lands and the Elf looked at him with such a solemn interest that he finally gave in.

''I am looking for a place called Imladris'', he admitted wearily. ''It is said to be a far northern dale where Elrond Half-Elven dwelt once... or perhaps still does.''

To his surprise a faint smile lit up Legolas' fair face.

''Oh, but he does'', he answered. ''Why are you looking for him?''

''I am following a dream'', Boromir replied, tiredness spreading in his limbs again. ''My brother'', his voice trembled slightly, ''my brother is cursed with the bitter gift of foresight. Half a year ago, a strange dream came to him in his troubled sleep; and afterwards a like dream came often to him again; and once to me. In that dream, we heard a voice, remote but clear, crying:

Seek for the Sword that was broken,_  
in Imladris it dwells;  
There shall be counsels taken  
Stronger than Morgul-spells.  
That Doom is near at hand,  
For Isildur's Bane shall waken,  
And the Halfling forth shall stand._

Of these words we could understand little, and we spoke to our father who is wise in the lore of Gondor. This only would he say, that Imladris was of old the name among the Elves of Elrond's home.''

''And you left your City to find it, without as much as a clue of its whereabouts?'' Legolas asked in awe. Boromir sighed.

''Desperate is the need of Gondor, and we who are her guardians are bound to take any means to keep her safe. Therefore my brother was eager to heed the dream and seek for Imladris; but since the way was full of doubt and danger, I took the journey upon myself. Loth was my father to give me leave, and long have I wandered by roads forgotten, seeking the house of Elrond, of which many had heard but few know where it lies.''

He drifted off, saddened, remembering the true circumstances of his departure from Minas Tirith, from his father and brother. Legolas looked at him intently, as if he had glanced directly into the very depths of his heart with those deep emerald eyes; then he laid a comforting hand on the Man's heavy shoulder.

''There is much more to tell about your departure and much bitterness in your heart'', he said softly, ''this I can tell. But the secrets of your heart are your own and I do not intend to pry into them. Be comforted, though, for the days of your fruitless search are now over. Then we, too, are on our way to Imladris – or Rivendell, as mortal Men call Elrond's hidden fortress – and the Last Homely House.''

Boromir blinked in surprise and relief, trying to blink away the fog of exhaustion that threatened to overcome his tortured mind.

''So you know the way?'' he asked. The Elf, a faint, reflective smile on his beautiful face, nodded.

''I do. Oh, how well I know it, indeed! Many happy summers have I spent among the immortal trees of that fair dale, and my heart is lightened with every step that brings us closer to its shores.'' He leaned closer, his eyes searching the Man's tired face. ''But I can see how heavy your limbs are with tiredness, son of Gondor. Do you believe you can continue your journey a little longer? For Imladris still lies several leagues before us.''

Boromir gave the Elf a bitter smile of his own.

''I am accustomed to hardness, Prince of Mirkwood, having travelled afoot ever since I had lost my horse at the city of Tharbad. Lead on – my feet might be heavier than yours, but they can bear the road no less.''

Legolas nodded.

''As you wish.'' He took the waterskin fom his shoulder and offered it the Man. ''Have at least some feywine first. It will warm you for the tiresome journey.''

Boromir never tasted the feywine of the Elves before but he had heard strange tales of it. His first taste of this legendary drink made all those tales pale. The wine tasted sweet, but fresh and spicy at the same time, like sunshine and wild fruit, and was surprisingly strong for human tastes. As Legolas had said, it warmed his insides rather nicely.

The Elf watched his careful gulp with a wry half-smile.

''I see you do not take risks, son of Gondor, which is a good thing, for the feywine of Mirkwood can knock the strongest Man cold if not taken with care. Come now, follow us. Your strength will last 'til we reach the fair shores of Imladris...''

* * * * * * * * * * * * *

**End note:**

(1) Yes, I know that ''Greenleaf'' is only a translation of Legolas' name. I simply assumed that by his dealings with Men he got used to translate his name for them.

Chapter 2 will follow seamlessly, with only a little of an alternate ending.


	2. Chapter 2: The Forgotten Song

FORGOTTEN SONG  
by Soledad

Disclaimer:  
The characters, the context and the main plot belong to Professor Tolkien, whom I greatly admire. I'm only trying to fill in the gaps he so graciously left for us, fanfic writers, to have some fun. 

Rating: PG - 13, for implied m/m interaction.  
  
AUTHOR'S NOTES: 

As I continued writing my Boromir story arc, certaing details underwent some changes, so that I felt necessary to retrospectively re-edit and even re-write some earlier stories. There will be added chapters to some of them, to give a necessary counterpoint to Boromir's POV and show how the others saw him; and to add some necessary backgournd information as well as certain hints that tie in these stories with the later ones and even with other storylines. 

Nevertheless, basically all the stories can be read alone. They are just more interesting when someone knows the hinTs placed in the other ones. 

This particular chapter has now a different - soemwhat extended - ending, in order to lead forth to a 3rd (and even a 4th) chapter. It's not yet beta-ed (nor are the other chapters), but my wonderful Nadja is working on it, may the Valar bless her. As soon as she is done, I'll re-load the chapter.

  
CHAPTER TWO: THE FORGOTTEN SONG 

Legolas took the lead and Boromir, flanked by the quiet archers of Mirkwood, followed him even deeper into the woods. They walked all day, in a considerable but steady pace, with few and short breaks, long enough only to eat a few wafers of cram, the food of the Dale-men for journeys in the wild, and to take another sip of feywine. 

The way to the heart of the mountains was longer than Bromir had expected, especially for him who had been cloaked and booted for a journey on horseback, not for a long walk among trees where his long, fur-lined cloak and his great horn got hooked on the tree-branches every time and again, and his long sword and large shield proved to be a rather heavy burden as well. He envied the Elves in their light tunics and cloaks, made for such journeys, and their easy walk and light strides among their beloved trees. 

Still, his pride let him not ask for longer rests, but fortunately, the young-looking Elven prince found his way through the wilderness with the unwavering instinct of light-winged birds returning home from the South after the cold winter had gone. He took his clues from familiar trees whom he greeted like old friends, whispering to them and singing softly while he petted their rough skin with the gentle fondness of a lover - and from irregularly-shaped white stones, most of which were covered with moss or heather so thickly that only the keen eyes of an Elf could have detected the stone under all that guise. 

* * * * * * * * * * 

And so the end of the second day came after they had joined for their journey, and when the day began to fall, they finally reached the end of their search as well. There were mots flattering about now, and the light became very dim, for the moon had yet not risen. Boromir, near to the end of his strength already, began to stumble over roots and stones, and when they suddenly came to the end of a steep fall in the ground, he nearly slipped down the slope. 

Cool, slender hands grabbed him with surprising strength as two of the Elven archers helped him back onto his feet, supporting him from both sides. 

''Here it is at last!'' Legolas took a deep breath, his fair face shone in the twilight with joy and anticipation. ''How has my heart longed to see you again in the silver glow of starlight, oh Imladris, fairest of all places where our kin dwells in the North!'' 

Boromir followed his glance, looking over the edge, and saw a valley far below, gleaming softly in the starlight in pale whites and golds. In spite of his tiredness he could hear the voice of the hurrying water in a rocky bed at the bottom - he would learn later that the river was called Bruinen and was under Elrond's command. The scent of the trees grew stronger in the air, and ther was a light on the valley-side across the water, soft and pale and beconing. 

Later, he could not remember the way they slithered and slipped in the dusk down the steep zig-zag path into the secret valley of Imladris. At least he did the slithering and slipping, for the light-footed Elves did not seem to suffer from the way. The air grew warmer as they got lower, Legolas gripping his arm firmly to bid support, for the smell of the pine-trees made him drowsy, so that he nearly fell. But Legolas' cool hand kept him from stumbling, and as they went down and down, a feeling of awe filled his heart. The trees changed to beech and oak, and there was a comfortable feeling in the twilight, almost comfortable enough for him to drop all his defenses. 

The last green had almost faded out of the greass when they came at length to an open glade not far above the banks of the stream. On the other side of the river Boromir could see the large, arched windows and slender pillars of beautifully carved pearly white and pale gold buildings that stood largely open to the sunshine, the winds and the starlight, yes, even to the rain, on every side, their shape mimicking the slender, upward-stretching form of young trees. Then such is the love of Elves to the trees and birds and every fair creaure that they want to be among them, even if they rest under their own roof. 

And Legolas stopped for a moment, his eyes wide with longing and bright with nearly unbearable joy, and he sang in a soft voice - a song, so ancient that even Boromir, better versed in the Elven tongue than most Men, had a hard time to undersand it. 

O fading town upon an inland hill  
Old shadows linger in thine ancient gate,  
Thy robe is grey, thy old heart is now still;  
Thy towers silent in the mist await  
Their crumbling end white through the storeyed elms  
The Gliding Water leaves there inland realm,  
And slips between long meadows to the Sea,  
Still bearing downward over murmurous falls  
One day than another to the Sea,  
And slowly thither many years have gone,  
Since first the Elves have built Kortirion. 

O climbing town upon thy windy hill  
With winding streets, and alleys shady-walled  
Where now untamed the peacocks pace in drill,  
Majestic, sapphire and emerald;  
Amid the girdle of this sleeping land,  
Where silver falls the rain and gleaming stand  
The whispering hos of old deep-rooted trees  
That cast long shadows in many a bygone noon,  
And murmured many centuries in the breeze.  
Thou art the city of the Land of Elms,  
Alalminórë in the Faery Realms. 

Sing of thy trees, Kortirion, again:  
The beech on hill, the willow in the fen,  
The rainy poplars, and the frowning yews  
Within thine agéd courts that muse  
In sombre splendour all the day;  
Until the twinkle of the early stars  
Comes glinting through their sable bars,  
And the white moon climbing up the sky  
Looks down upon the ghosts of trees that die  
Slowly and silently from day to day.  
O Lonely Isle, here was thy citadel,  
Ere bannered summer from his fortress fell.  
Then full of music were thine elms.  
Green was their armour, green their helms,  
The Lords and Kings of all thy trees.  
Sing, then, olf elms, renowned Kortirion,  
That under summer crowds their full sail on,  
And shrouded stand like masts of verdurous ships,  
A fleet of galleons that proudly slips  
Across long sunlit seas... 

He trailed off and Boromir saw with mild shock the tears that were streaming down not only his but also his companions' face. He could only guess what a meaning this song must have had for the Wood-Elves. 

''What song was that?'' He whispered, more to himself than to the Elves, but Legolas heard him, of course. 

''A very old and mostly forgotten one'', he answered, wiping his tears away without the slightest embarrassment. ''Those were only the first verses, though.'' 

''And you sang the old and clumsy verses, as usual'', a new and (for Boromir) unknown voice said, and a tall Elf, clad in a gold-embroided white robe and a deep burgundy cloak came out from the trees, bowing slightly towards them. His hair, unlike that of the Wood-Elves, was not braided, and it framed his ageless face like molten gold. He had the clear, ringing voice of all Elves, but something in it told about power and experience and very, very high age. 

''I sang them as it is customary among the Silvan folk'', Legolas replied, smiling; it had to be an old argument between the two of them, Boromir guessed, for neither looked truly upset about it. ''We prefer to keep our songs as tradition gifted them upon us, instead of twisting them to match every new fashion.'' 

''Most stubborn they are, the haughty Tree Children of Mirkwood'', the golden Elf countered, making them both laug, ''But their voices are softer than summer breeze among the golden leaves, so we forgive them.'' 

They laughed again, then clasped each other's forearms in a warrior-like manner before embracing like the old friends they obviously were. Then the golden Elf added: 

''Welcome in the valley. Legolas. Too long it has been since your feet touched ground under our trees. Your return will be, no doubt, the source of great joy for the whole valley - but most of all for its master.'' 

''I do hope so'', Legolas replied with a sigh. ''Long have I craved to see him again as well; albeit he might not be overjoyed about the news whose bearer I was chosen to be.'' 

''We are used to all kinds of black news nowadays'', the golden-haired Elf shrugged with feline grace. ''Though the Prince of Mirkwood arriving in the company of a stranger - and a mortal Man above all - is certainly not something we would see every day.'' 

''No, indeed, it is not'', Legolas laughed to the slight rebuke, ''and you, dear friend, were right to remaind me of my manners. But Boromir son of Denethor has come all the long way from Minas Tirith to seek out Elrond's wisdom, so I thought it only fair to bring him with me.'' Then he turned to Boromir and gestured towards the other Elf. ''And this is Glorfindel who dwells in the house of Elrond.'' 

Boromir glared at the Elf whom he had heard of in ancient legends only, told him by the nurses and teachers of his early childhood, realizing that Glorfindel had to be at least eight thousand years old - probably much older even - and had fought enemies of such power and evil he could not even imagine, himself. 

And he was overwhelmed with amazement and disbelief, for Glorfindel's face was youthful and fair and fearless and merry as that of a young child, not a sign revealing his true age, if not the troubled depths of his eyes. 

''Hail and well met, son of Denethor!'', said the Elf-lord to Boromir. ''You chose the time of your arrival well; for Elrond has summonded a Council for the near future, and he will, no doubt, be relieved that the Steward of Gondor can be told of its decisions.'' 

Legolas furrowed his smooth brow. This slight sign of concern, strangely, belied his youthful looks for once. Boromir could not help wondering just how old the fair Prince of Mirkwood might be. As young and innocent as he seemed, there was a wisdom in his eyes and a hardness among his features that told of experience, good and bad alike. 

''Has Estel returned yet?'' he asked. Glorfindel nodded, relief clearly written in his face. 

''Two days ago; and the Messenger with him. I left Imladris two weeks earlier, sent by Elrond to look for them, for we feared that they were in grave danger upon the road. Elrond received news that troubled him. Some of our kindred, journeying in the lands beyond the Baranduin, learned that things were amiss and sent messages as swiftly as they could.'' 

Legolas nodded sharply, lips pressed together in a thin, grom line, emerald eyes glittering cold and hard like frozen water. 

''We, too, got a message from Gildor Inglorion, saying that the Nine were abroad and the Messenger astray without guidance, for Mithrandir had not returned.'' 

''There are few, even in Imladris, who can ride openly against the Nine; but such as there were, Elrond sent out north, west and south'', Glorfindel added. ''It was my lot to take the Road, and I came to the Bridge of Mitheitel and left a token there for Estel to guide him. Three of the servants of Sauron were on the bridge, but they withdraw and pursued them westward. I came also upon two others, but they turned away southward. After that, I searched for Estel's trail. Two days it took me to find it, and until great peril we crossed the Ford. But alas! The Nine, reunited, found us and trapped us between themselves and the river, and the Messenger was wounded.'' 

''Wounded!'' Legolas cried. ''By a Morgul-blade? Would he live?'' 

''Elrond says yes'', Glorfindel answered soothingly. ''He found the splinter of the blade in the wound, deep and moving inwards, and removed it. And now, that Mithrandir is due to arrive as well, we finally can take counsels.'' 

Mithrandir! Now that was a name that made even a tired Boromir alert again. It had been only a year ago that the Grey Pilgrim, as Gondor's Men called him in Elf-fashion, visited Minas Tirith and got leave of Denethor to look at the secrets of the Steward's treasury again, as he had done many times earlier. 

Ever he would search and would question the lore-masters of Denethor's house, above all else concerning the Great Battle that was fought upon Dagorlad in the beginning of Gondor when the Dark Lord was overthrown. And he was eager for stories of Isildur, though of him even the Wise of Minas Tirith had less to tell; for nothing certain was ever known among the Men of Gondor of his end. 

But Faramir, ever the scholar and of curious mind, had learnt (in the rare times when Mithrandir would teach him), or guessed, and he had kept it ever secret in his heart since, sharing it with Boromir only, that Isildur took something from the hand of the Unnamed, ere he went away from Gondor, never to be seen among mortal Men again. 

Here, Faramir thought, was the answer of Mithrandir's questioning. But it seemed then a matter that concerned only the seekers after ancient learning, and Boromir, not being one of them could have not cared less, so Faramir abandoned the thought as well. 

Nor when the riddling words of their dream were debated among them did the brothers think of Isildur's Bane as being the same thing. For Isildur was ambushed and slain by orc-arrows, according the only legend that they knew, and Mithrandir had never told them more. 

Now though, as Legolas and Glorfindel of the ancient legends were talking about some old evil he could not even fathom, the elder son of Denethor began to think about all those events once more, wondering if they had the answer before their very eyes, but were cursed with blindness so that they didn't even realize it. 

He only listened to the discussion of the Elves with half an ear, for the people and places they were talking about said naught to him, his mind pondering about that dream again. Would he ever come to understand its meaning? Would it help him to protect the White City of the Kings against peril? Or had he made this long and torturous journey for nothing and will have to return to his father in shame? 

He shook his head in glumness and defense as if he could have shaken off his tiredness and doubts. but even this small gesture proved to be too much for his spent strength, and he wayed on his feet and almost fell. Only the two pairs of strong Elven hands kept him going. 

''Do show him to a room in the guest house where he can rest and summon back his strength, Glorfindel, I beg you'', Legolas said. ''I need to see Elrond at once; but in the morrow, I shall come and bring him to the Lord of Imladris, for they will have much to discuss.'' 

There was a look of quiet understanding between the two Elves, a meaning much deeper behind their words of courtesy than a mere mortal could have guessed. Then Glorfindel simply nodded and - wrapping a supporting arm around Boromir's slumped shoulders - shepherded the Man of Gondor to a nearby guest house, leaving it to Legolas to come for him and escort him to Elrond's house on the next day. 

* * * * * * * * * * * * * 

After Glorfindel had left with his already half-asleep mortal charge, other Elves came out from the trees, greeting Legolas and his escort with soft, musical voices. One of them, though ageless in his appearance, wore that far-away look in his eyes that could only be seen on Elves of high age, who had know much peril and sorrow in their long lives. 

It was Erestor, the head of Elrond's counsellors and the seneschal of his house. Not very old for an Elf, actually, but aged beyond his years, for he had seen much pain and death in his life already.

''Welcome to Imladris once again, my Lord Prince'', he said, clasping Legolas' forearms in a warrior's greeting; for despite his rather tame occupation in the valley, Erestor was a seasoned warrior, just as well as Glorfindel, and together they rode with Elrond's host against the Witch-King of Angmar once, almost two thousand years ago. '''Tis good to have you here one more time.'' 

''Thank you, Master Erestor'', replied Legolas smiling. ''Is the Lord Elrond available?'' 

The chief counsellor nodded.  
''Most certainly, my Prince. He ordered me to escort you to his chambers as soon as you arrive...'', he paused for a moment. ''Truth be told, we expected you sooner.'' 

''We were delayed'', Legolas explained. ''Two days ago, we met a Man from Gondor, who was seeking out Elrond's house, so we took him with us.'' 

''From Gondor, you say?'' Erestor repeated in surprise. ''How strange! Never had Imladris any dealings with the South-kingdom and Anárion's heirs.'' 

''Alas, there had not been any heirs of Anárion left in the South-kingdom, for almost five hundred years'', the Prince of Mirkwood remainded him. 

Erestor shrugged.  
''They had their Ruling Stewards, and rumour is, they kept their land safe - with considerably more luck than the Kings of the North, if I may say. So... who is this Man of Gondor you have brought to our valley?'' 

''Boromir son of Denethor is his name'', Legolas answered, ''and he is the Heir of the Steward of Gondor.'' 

At once, Erestor became worried.  
'''Tis no good'', he said. ''Having him under the same roof as Estel might be disastrous. You know how easily Men's will falter and how jealous they can become when it comes to what they think of as theirs.'' 

''That might be true'', Legolas nodded, ''yet sooner or later they have to meet, and Imladris is as good a place for that as any other. Mayhap even better.'' 

''Let us hope it is'', sighed Erestor. ''But do forgive me, my Prince, for delaying your reunion with the Lord of the Valley. I shall bring you to him at once.'' 

''My escort...'', Legolas began, but Erestor raised a soothing hand. 

''They shall be taken care of. The guest house stands almost empty, since the Messenger has been given a chamber in the main house, who Lord Elrond can tend to his injuries. So your people shall have all the free room they might desire.'' 

''Go with them'', Legolas turned to his fellow archers, inclining his head toward the Elves of the dale who had come to greet them. ''I shall not join you for the Dawn Greeting tomorrow, but I shall seek out you during the day. Rest and enjoy the peace and the beauty of the valley.''

The Mirkwood Elves bowed to their Prince, low and graceful as young trees in a slight breeze, then followed the sentries without a word. Legolas, for his part, joined Erestor, who led him through the narrow bridge of the Bruninen and up to a secret stairway of grey stone - a short-cut path to Elrond's chambers. 

* * * * * * * * * * * 

As you can see, not much of a change in this chapter. The Dawn Greeting is a Wood-Elven ceremony that will be shown eventually, in a much later tale, by the way.

The Messenger is Frodo, of course. Originally I had Glorfindel call him the Ring-bearer, until Anglachel rightly pointed out that the case of the Ring would not have been discussed openly in Rivendell.


	3. Chapter 3: Darkenings

FORGOTTEN SONG  
by Soledad

Disclaimer: The characters, the context and the main plot belong to Professor Tolkien, whom I greatly admire. I'm only trying to fill in the gaps he so graciously left for us, fanfic writers, to have some fun. Legolas' extended family, however, belongs to me. 

**Rating:** PG - 13, for implied m/m interaction.  
  
Author's notes: 

To write this chapter became necessary as I got involved with several different storylines where Legolas' ancestry became an issue. Now, we all know that Tolkien did not tell us much about Legolas' background, except that his father, Thranduil, was the King of Northern Mirkwood – the same Elven King Bilbo and the Dwarves met during the events described in ''The Hobbit''. 

Alas, due to this description Thranduil does have a rather bad image by many fanfic writers. I do not belong to these, so if you expect any Thranduil bashing, you are reading the wrong story. I have great respect for Thranduil, and in a later time I even intend to do a very long, very detailed Thranduil story, where all the events will be described and explained that are hinted here and there in my other stories. 

For now, you only need to know, that in my stories Legolas is the Crown Prince of Mirkwood, because his three much older brothers (born at the begin of the Second Age), had fallen in battle during the Last Alliance of Elves and Men, defending Oropher, their grandfather. Legolas' mother died during the Fell Winter (year 2911 of the Third Age), in the dungeons of Dol Guldur. He also had two sisters, but one of them was poisoned by the giant spiders of Mirkwood and could not be healed again, while the other married a Telerin Elf of Círdan's kindred and moved to the Havens. 

All these ''facts'' are made up of thin air, so it's up to you whether you accept my take on Legolas' family or not. It would be helpful, though, should you intend to enjoy what I have to offer. g

CHAPTER THREE: DARKENINGS 

They found Elrond in his study, as expected. The Lord of Imladris was preparing to retreat for the night, it seemed, for though still fully clothed, his long, raven hair was unbraided already, and he did not wear the delicately woven mithril circlet upon his brow, without which he rarely was seen. 

As time-honoured custom demanded from a visiting Prince, Legolas knelt before the Lord of the Valley and kissed his hand. 

''My Lord Elrond'', he said, ''I bring you the greetings and regards of my father, the King of Northern Mirkwood.'' 

''King Thranduil honours me'', answered Elrond as it was required, his voice deeper and even so slightly harder than that of the younger Elf; then he smiled and helped Legolas onto his feet and embraced him tightly. '''Tis good to have you here again, my fair Wood-Elf.'' 

'''Tis good to be back'', Legolas rested his forehead on Elrond's shoulder for a moment, then gently freed himself from his embrace and took the proffered seat at one of the tall, narrow windows that reached from the stone-paved ground up almost to the shadow-covered, arched ceiling. 

Erestor, too, found a seat for himself, and they waited in companionable silence, broken only by the far-away murmuring of the waterfalls, til shortly thereafter Glorfindel came in as well, to join them for a word and for a cup of miruvor, which the Master of the House reached them by his own hand. 

''How was your journey?'', Elrond asked Legolas, when they were finally all seated and given a heart-warming cup of the famous cordial of Imladris. 

The Prince of Mirkwood shrugged, sipping carefully on his drink. ''As it could have been expected. You know all too well that the dark things that were driven out in the year of the Dragon's fall have returned in even greater numbers; and Mirkwood is again an evil place, save where our remain is maintained.'' 

''I am amazed that King Thranduil still is able to keep his borders safe'', Erestor remarked. ''In a realm where people live scattered all among the woods, instead living in fortified cities, 'tis a remarkable achievement.'' 

''My father'', said Legolas with a grim face, ''had learnt from the disastrous mistakes that made me his Heir.(1) He is well able to take care for his kingdom.'' 

Erestor shifted uncomfortably in his seat, for the aforementioned disaster was the cause of great pain and a long-held grudge between the exiled Noldor and the Silvan folk. Regardless how many thousands of years had passed since then, the sheer memory of it still proved unsettling – for both sides. 

Glorfindel shook his golden head with a rueful smile. Sometimes even those of his Kin who were born during the First Age seemed but young children in his ancient eyes. Sometimes being as old as he was demanded the utmost of patience toward the younger ones. 

Elrond noticed his reaction and smiled. Being the one whose own brother had become the progenitor of a whole race of Men, gave him a hint of how Glorfindel must have felt among them. For though officially Erestor was not only the head of his counsellors and the seneschal of his House but enjoyed foster son's status as well, the one he relied upon most and whose counsel he mostly followed, was the gold-haired, ancient warrior – the only one of the Vanyar Elves who still walked on Earth.(2)

It was the same thing as long generations of Dúnedain relying upon him and his advice. 

He reached out and laid a soothing hand upon Legolas' knee. ''How is your father faring?'', he asked in quiet compassion. For as one who had to go through the same pain, he certainly could understand Thranduil's grief. 

Legolas shrugged, his fair face darkening with sorrow.  
''Ever since we have lost Mother, he has never been the same. He loved her with all his heart; and now, that she is gone to Mandos' Halls, my father is... oh, I cannot say what he is like. As if something had been broken, deep inside him.'' 

''Most likely his heart'', said Glorfindel quietly. ''Give him time. It has been less than a hundred years... our kin needs a long time to mend.'' 

''That I know'', Legolas sighed. ''Losing her would have been hard enough... but losing her in that terrible way...'' 

''At least he had lost her to Mandos and not to the Enemy'', Glorfindel reminded him gently. ''Your mother chose the right way.'' 

''That she did'', Legolas nodded, ''but knowing that does not make her loss any less painful... or my father less lonely. Now that Mother, too, is gone, I am all that is left for him.'' 

''I am surprised that he does not urge you harder to give him heirs'', said Elrond. ''That he gave his leave to your... understanding with your Lady.''(4) 

''Oh, but he does'', Legolas laughed mirthlessly. ''The understanding we have is given by my Lady alone. Were it not for the darkness awakening at all our borders again, he probably would use his powers as my father and my King to force the issue.'' 

''Are you... are you willing to give in?'', Elrond asked. 

Legolas remained silent for a rather long while, eyes downcast and very, very sad. Then he looked up to the Lord of the Valley again with regret. 

''I fear that I have no other choice'', he answered. ''I cannot deny him to see his House live on; not now when he has naught else to hold on. I would not let him fade away in grief... no more than I could have let the same fate happen to you. He is my father, after all – and my King. I owe him my allegiance – both as his now-only son and as the Crown Prince of his realm.'' 

Elrond nodded. His eyes took on that strange, far-away look again that both Glorfindel and Erestor had noticed several times during the recent years. None of them had ever mentioned it to their Lord, but they knew all too well what it might mean. 

''I understand your reason'', the Lord of the Valley said to Legolas. ''Be comforted. You shall not have to break any of your promises. I... I have finally received the Call, Legolas, shortly after your last visit in Imladris. How ever the upcoming dark times might end, I shall not remain in Middle-earth much longer.'' 

Glorfindel exchanged a knowing look with Erestor and both nodded, almost invisibly. So they had been right, after all. After three full Ages and thousands of years spent in Middle-earth, their Lord and long-time friend finally was hit by the irrepressible Sea-longing that all Elves fell for, sooner or later, save perhaps the Silvan folk. 

Given Elrond's ancestry (him being the son of the greatest mariner of all times), it was inevitable that the Longing will reach him eventually. It was a wonder itself (and the Half-Elven's endless preoccupation with fighting the darkness) that it took him this long, Glorfindel thought. 

As one who had dwelt in the Blessed Realm, he certainly could understand the urge to get there.  
''Do your children know?'', he asked carefully. 

Elrond shook his head. ''Nay... and I wish them not to know, not yet. Our minds should be focussed on the issue of the One that reappeared. It shall be a long and hard fight as it is; and they have a greater chance to live through it when they are not preoccupied.'' 

''What about Estel?'', Erestor inquired. 

''He would have his own worries'', said Elrond. ''Now that the One has returned, Narsil should be re-forged and the ages-old war of Númenor's children fought to its end. My Calling is but a small matter in the great tapestry of fate that is about to unfold.'' 

''All forces of good or evil are moving'', Glorfindel nodded in agreement. ''We have received messages upon the wings of birds from Mithlond, and even from the Dwarven Kingdom of Erebor, that messengers had been sent out to seek counsel and tidings in Imladris.'' 

Legolas frowned. When Círdan the shipwright, Lord of the Grey Havens had felt the need to consult Elrond, then things were even more serious than he had thought. Very few things could bring Círdan, the Sea-Elf most beloved by Ossë, Lord of the Sea, out of his calm. 

''Whom had Círdan sent?'', Erestor asked; unlike Glorfindel, he had not come to look up the messages that came in during the day yet. 

''None less than Galdor himself'', answered Glorfindel with a fond smile. 

''Galdor?'', said Erestor in surprise. ''This will be one happy reunion, then. Not many of those who lived through the Fall of the Hidden City do still walk the Earth, and few they are, indeed, those who can still remember of the day of your youth, Master Glorfindel.''(5) 

Glorfindel laughed, and it sounded like silver bells in a slight breeze. ''Nay, Erestor, I was a youngling no more even during the glorious days of the First Age. But I shall, indeed, warm my heart with the joy of seeing such a dear, old friend again. It has been a full Age since we last met.'' 

He looked at Legolas, smiling. ''Mayhap he shall bring the one or other message from your sister as well.'' 

''I certainly hope so'', Legolas gave him a sad little smile. ''Celebwen(6) is the last of my siblings still alive, and I miss her greatly. But 'tis better for her to live in Mithlond, for she had always been the only one among us who felt the Longing, even as she was but a little girl... or so Father says. The Havens might give her heart some peace - for the time being, at least. Sooner or later, she, too, will depart – and I would be left behind. Alone.'' 

''She always has been different'', Glorfindel nodded. ''Not only had she inherited the silver hair and the love for the Sea from your forefather, she also had spoken to the Lady  Uinen(7) face to face; not many from these later generations are given such a grace.'' 

Legolas glared at him in shock. ''How can you possibly know...? To no-one but our parents had she ever told about that. I only learnt of it myself after Mother was gone.'' 

''As you are well aware of that, I have always taken a personal interest in the well-faring of your family'', Glorfindel said, ''to honour the one you were named after and whom I owe never-ending gratitude. Besides, I am also the one who had spoken face to face with the Lords of the West as well.'' 

They fell silent again. Glorfindel's death and return from Mandos' Halls was something for ancient legends, and he rarely spoke about it. Just as Elrond belonged to both Elves and Men, did Glorfindel belong to two worlds of even more profound difference. For the might that he was given upon his return raised him high above even the mightiest Elf-lords and was nearly akin to that of the Maiar.(8) 

The ancient Elf cleared his throat to break the uncomfortable silence and turned to Legolas, who, in his opinion, looked a lot more troubled than at other times. The high spirit that usually made the young Wood-Elf such a delightful company, was gone, and there was a hardness hidden in his fair features that had not been there before. 

''So tell me, my Prince'', Glorfindel urged gently, ''how are things truly faring in Mirkwood? For we had no tidings from your father's realm save those brought by Estel.'' 

''Things are faring badly'', Legolas answered with a shrug, ''and they keep getting worse with every passing season. Three moons ago, we have been attacked by the Orc-hosts of Dol Guldur, deep within our own realm, and suffered heavy losses. The Giant Spiders had grown in numbers; we are barely able to fight them off our borders – and we hunt more often for Wargs than we do so for deer. Alas, the foul flesh of Sauron's hounds cannot nourish our people, and they are slaying our prey mercilessly.'' 

''Do you suffer dire needs?'', Glorfindel asked. 

Legolas shrugged again. ''We are used to it. The Tree Children had learnt long ago to live on as little food as the forest can provide it, save the feasts. But that grows less as the woods are more and more infested with evil. Fortunately, the Men of Dale are friendly to us and gracious in their trading, or else we would be starving by now.'' 

He smiled again, less sadly this time. ''They are good folk, the Bardings. The grandson of Bard the Bowman rules them, and he remembers me as the friend of Bard and keeps the alliances of his ancestor. A strong King he is, Brand son of Bain, and his realm now reaches far south and east of Esgaroth.'' 

He sighed, his eyes focussing inwards for a moment. ''I like the folk of Dale, and we need them to go on, that is the bitter truth'', he then said. ''Yet I can understand my father's yearning for the great, unspoiled forests of old when no other races came near to our dwellings, falling the trees and changing the face of the wood for ever. I, too, would love to dwell in a forest where the loud noise of Men and Orcs would not suppress the talking and quiet songs of trees. I know what was before the coming of Mankind would never be again, and it saddens me to have been born this late – when the tree-giants of the Elder Days are less than a memory, even among the trees themselves.'' 

''We cannot change what we have been given'', said Elrond soberly; ''we only can try to protect what little beauty of the Old World is still there.'' 

''That I know'', Legolas sighed'', and even that might be harder than we believed. For the evil has grown while we were fading, and unless a wonder happens, it will cover everything with darkness, soon.'' He laughed mirthlessly again. ''This is the first time for over two thousand years that my father is actually grateful that Celebwen wedded one of the Falathrim(9), against his will. They might flee to the West when everything should fall into darkness, at least.'' 

''Darkness has not yet fallen'', Elrond replied, ''and the return of the One, though it had brought us great peril, might turn off as the very means how we finally could clean Middle-earth from the evil of its Maker. What we failed... what I failed to accomplish after Sauron's first defeat, we might bring to an end after all.'' 

''We might'', Glorfindel nodded, the ages-old wisdom shining in his eyes, brighter than the stars of Varda upon the night sky; ''the chance is very slim, though. We must keep walking on knife's edge, or we shall fall – and all Middle-earth with us. 'Tis the only chance we shall be given... we must use it wisely.'' 

''The paths of all Free Folk began to merge together, and once more Imladris seems to be the spot where they shall meet'', said Elrond. ''Or does it seem to you as pure chance, that after such a long tome of being separated from their northern kindred, the rulers of the South-kingdom feel the need to seek out my counsel? I have become but a legend for them, a long time ago. Yet there he is, the Heir of their Lord, under my very roof.'' 

He turned to Legolas. ''Did he tell you what leads him to my doorstep?'' 

''He spoke about a dream... some sort of foresight, I deem'', the Prince of Mirkwood answered thoughtfully. ''It was about a broken sword and Isildur's Bane reappearing – and about a Halfling that forth shall stand. Could it have been a warning about the One... or foretelling the return of the King?'' 

Elrond exchanged a look with his counsellors. Erestor shrugged, but Glorfindel was ready to give the idea some thought. 

''The Valar have many different ways to reach one'', he said, ''and speaking to them through their dreams is but one of those.'' 

''The noble families of Númenor were known of their gift of foresight'', Elrond added, ''and Mithrandir told me once that the Lord Denethor and his second son are carrying this burden.'' He looked at Legolas in askance. ''You can see into the heart of Elves and Men, Legolas. What do you think of the Heir of Gondor?'' 

''I spoke little to him, for our road was tiresome and we had to go on the best speed we could'', the Wood-Elf replied. ''But he seems to make his name all due honour(10): he is a steadfast, trusty man, for sure, a faithful vassal of whatever Lord he swears his oath; yet he is also head-strong and very proud – not an easy Man to handle, even with the utmost care.'' 

''Then with care we shall handle him'', Elrond said, ''for in the upcoming fight we shall need to have all the enemies of the one Enemy gathered on the same side. Are there any other tidings you want to share with us, son of Thranduil?'' 

''Many of them, and no-one of them is pleasant'', Legolas admitted. ''But they can wait til that Council Glorfindel had spoken of upon my arrival... or at least til Mithrandir finally appears in our midst.'' 

''So be it'', Elrond nodded, and his counsellors understood that it was a dismissal. They took their leave from the Lord of the Valley and left him alone with his guest. Elrond smiled at Legolas' tired face. 

''So, little archer'', he said, and they both laughed, for this was the name he had given the Prince of Mirkwood long ago, upon a time when Legolas really was very, very young, ''what can I do for you to make your stay in the valley more pleasant? For you look weary and your eyes are haunted, more so than I have ever seen you in all those thousands of years since we first met.'' 

''I am weary'', Legolas confessed, ''but 'tis more the weariness of the heart than that of the limbs. Still, I believe the healing hands of the Master of this House upon them could bring me great relief.'' 

* * * * * * * * * * * * 

**End notes:**

1) Legolas mentions here the Battle upon Dagorlad, at the end of the Second Age. This was the last alliance between Elves and Men, and though Sauron has been overthrown, it ended with the death both of the Elf-king Gil-galad and of Elendil the Tall, last High King of the Númenórean people in Middle-earth. 

Also in this battle happened that Oropher, Legolas' grandfather, who was leading the hosts of the Silvan Elves (and not willing to accept Gil-galad's command) was slain and Thranduil, his son led home only the third of the Elves who had followed them to the battle. 

In my concept Thranduil was escorted by his three older sons (all of them born at the begin of the Second Age, so considerably older than Legolas, who has barely come of age at that time), and these sons, too, had fallen in battle.  
  
2) Of course, it is never stated by Tolkien that Glorfindel would be one of the Vanyar Elves, since he tells us almost nothing about the Vanyar, save that they were the first to follow the summoning of the Valar. Very few of them are named at all, and they seem to be far removed from the issues of Middle-earth. 

3) The Fell Winter was in the year 2991 in the Third Age. During this time the Baranduin River was frozen and white wolves invaded Eriador from the north.

 4) As you will learn in ''Of Riddles of Doom and Paths of Love'', Legolas is betrothed to a Nandorin princess, whom I – after a lot of consideration – named Indreâbhan, borrowing the name of an OC from my original fiction.

5) Alright, now here I gave my self-drawn canon rather a twist.  
According to The Book of Lost Tales Part 2, there was a Galdor in Gondolin, and in a rather high position. I changed the background of poor Galdor quite a lot. You can read more details about it in the Appendix.

6) The name of Legolas' older sister means ''silver maiden'' in Sindarin (or at least so I hope), which is the tongue even Wood-Elves had spoken during the Third Age, albeit with a vastly different accent.  
  
7) Uinen (or, in older texts, Ónen) was a Maia, the Lady of the Seas, spouse of Ossë. It was considered a rare grace from one of the Maiar to speak to lesser beings, even to Elves, especially during the Third Age, which was the time of their fading.  
  
8) The Maiar were lesser angelic beings, the servants of the Valar, created by Ilúvatar personally before the beginning of Ea (the world). Some of them visited Middle-earth in the shape of Elves and Men; Melian, the Wife of the Sindarin king Elu Thingol was one of them, and so was Sauron himself (although a fallen one) and all the Istari (wizards), including Saruman and Gandalf.  
  
9) The Falathrim were Círdan's people, who dwelt in the Grey Havens. The name comes from the word 'falas', that means haven.  
  
10) The name ''Boromir'' has an interesting meaning. According to the Etymologies in The Lost Road, it contains the roots 'boron' = faithful man, steadfast, trusty vassal, and 'mir' = jewel, precious thing, treasure. It is said to be ''A Noldorin (later: Sindarin) name of ancient origin, also borne by Gnomes (later: Noldor) in the forms of Boronmíro or Boromíro'', in earlier Tokien-scripts. So, Legolas actually voices a great compliment to Boromir!


	4. Chapter 4: Veiled From Prying Eyes

FORGOTTEN SONG**  
by Soledad **

Disclaimer: The characters, the context and the main plot belong to Professor Tolkien, whom I greatly admire. I'm only trying to fill in the gaps he so graciously left for us, fanfic writers, to have some fun. 

**Rating:** PG - 13, for implied m/m interaction.  
  
Author's notes:

Now that I started to defend all of the disliked fathers of Middle-earth, I decided to give Denethor a chance to speak his mind about the events, too. Actually, I don't think him to be as cruel and evil as some of my fellow writers – especially the very talented ones who managed to make him look really bad. 

There is no problem with that, everyone is entitled to their own opinion and their own take of a character, as long as the stories themselves are good. Nor do I intend to start a heated discussion about Denethor. I'm simply offering my own view of him, and everyone can agree or disagree with me. It's up to you, folks.

This chapter is actually a stand-alone glimpse into Denethor's head, belonging only loosely into this story. But this is the actual time when he is doing his musings, and I haven't found a better place for them in any other story. So I decided to put it here – even if it causes a slight style break in the story itself.

The facts to this chapter were taken from the Appendix of ''The Return of the King''. 

CHAPTER FOUR: VEILED FROM PRYING EYES 

Many long leagues southwards, upon the out-thrust knee of Mount Mindolluin, Minas Tirith, the Guarded City with her seven walls of stone so strong and old that she seemed to have been not built but craven by the Valar themselves out of the bones of the Earth, was wrapping herself in darkness. 

The Guards of the Citadel, dark shadows in the darkness in their black surcoats, the embroidment of the White Tree upon them now invisible, only their winged helms of mithril gleaming in the moonlight, stood at their watchposts, their keen eyes going round and round as it was their duty. 

But time and again, their gaze drifted off to the White Tower of Ecthelion, now hardly visible in the deep darkness, save from that pale, eerie light that gleamed and flickered from the narrow windows of the highest chamber for a while, and then flashed and went out. 

The Guards exchanged worried looks, for their Lord spent, indeed, an increasing amount of time in that secret room under the summit of the Tower, where no-one had been allowed entrance, not even his own sons; and though the Guards could not guess what the Lord Denethor was doing up there, they were worried. For whenever the Steward descended again, his face was haggard and death-like grey, as if after some long and cruel battle. 

Yet there was no-one in Minas Tirith, not the Guards of the Citadel, nor the members of the Council who would dare to ask him any questions, unless he was willing to speak about something of his own will. 

High up in the secret chamber, Denethor son of Ecthelion, six and twentieth Ruling Steward of Gondor, leaned back in his high chair and released the Seeing Stone from the iron grip of his unbreakable will, finally admitting defeat. No matter how hard he had tried, the palantír was not able to see through the grey mist that had covered the path of his firstborn son. 

A hundred and ten days had he followed the long and tiresome journey of his Heir, from Rohan through many barren and empty lands, through perils and bloody skirmishes with Orcs and through chance encounters, til Boromir finally stumbled upon that small company of strange-looking Elves who then led him the right way. Yet as soon as they reached the borders of Imladris, a silvery mist, not unlike a cloud, descended upon them, and not even the palantír would penetrate it. 

Denethor sighed in disappointment, though he was not overly surprised. He had suspected that the Elf-Lords must have found a way to hide their dwellings from the evil Eye of the Enemy - and thus they kept hidden from other eyes as well. Otherwise he would have found that valley on his own, due to the simple aid of the Seeing Stone. 

Nevertheless, he did not like this turn of events. 

Ever since Denethor became Steward, almost a quarter of a century ago, he considered himself a masterful Lord, and as such, he preferred holding the rule of all things in his own hands. To keep his intentions well-hidden, he said little of them, and though he listened to counsel, he always followed his own mind. 

Thus far it proved to be a good path to follow. 

Still, after the untimely death of his wife(1) Denethor became even more grim and silent than he had been before, and would sit long alone in this very chamber of the Tower, deep in thought, foreseeing that the assault of Mordor would come in his time. For just as his second son, he had inherited the bitter gift of foresight from his Númenórean ancestors, and often were his dreams haunted by darkness and fire. 

Mayhap it would have done him more good to seek out the counsel of one of the wizards, but though he admired - and envied - the skills of Curunír(2), he also was subtle in mind and looked further and deeper than other Men in these lesser days, and he did not trust the Master of Isengard. 

As for Mithrandir, the other wizard who often visited Minas Tirith in the days of Ecthelion, there was little love between him and Denethor, for the Steward trusted him even less than he trusted Curunír, suspecting some secret plot from the side of the Grey Pilgrim, and it angered him beyond measure that his younger son seemed so enchanted by him. 

So Denethor was left to his own counsel, and needing knowledge but being proud and trusting in his own strength of will, he dared to look in the palantír of the White Tower. No-one of the other Stewards had dared to do this, nor even the last Kings, Eärnil and Eärnur, after the fall of Minas Ithil, when the palantír of Isildur came into the hands of the Enemy; for the Stone of Minas Tirith was the palantír of Anárion(3), most close in accord with the one that now the Dark Lord possessed. 

But Denethor was a Man of extraordinary willcraft; and, as the Ruling Steward of the House of Anárion, it was well within his right to use the Stone. And so he did, and was even strong-willed enough to bend the Stone to his own will, and in this way he gathered great knowledge of things that passed in his realm and far beyond his borders. 

Yet though Men marvelled such a knowledge, it was bought dearly; for Denethor aged before his time by his contest with the will of the Dark Lord. For, indeed, all the events of his days seemed an endless combat in his eyes, a combat between the Lord of the White Tower and the Lord of Barad-dúr, and mercilessly driven had he himself and his two sons in order to win this combat - or to delay the inevitable defeat. 

For what he saw in the palantír gave him no hope for victory. Orc-hordes did he see, roaming the black hills of Mordor like ants; and great hosts of the cruel Haradrim, marching towards Gondor on the back of their great múmaks; and huge fleets of black ships sailing towards Pelargir; and giant, winged beasts in the sky, carrying the Nameless Fear high above the heads of helpless Men. And beyond all this, the great Eye, framed with dark fire, was watching. 

Grim pictures of the upcoming defeat they were the palantír kept showing him, and Denethor spent an increasing length of time meditating the downfall of his land and his House, pondering where he himself or one of his sires might have made a grave error that caused the very begin of this fall. 

It was a long tale, full of blood and war, indeed. 

It was in the days of Turgon, his father's father(4), that the Enemy arose again, declaring himself openly; and he re-entered Mordor, long prepared for him. Denethor now could see the well-thought scheme of the Dark Lord, who distracted his greatest foe with sending the Haradrim against Gondor, and while the Stewards were occupied with the southern peril, Barad-dúr was raised once more. 

And then, two days before Turgon's death(5), Mount Doom burst into flame again, and the last of the folk of Ithilien fled far away. And ever since the people of Minas Tirith had lived under the shadow of the dark, poisonous clouds that hung densely above the Black Fields of Mordor - a darkness that not only stained the eastward skies but clouded their hearts as well. 

After Turgon's death Curunír took Isengard for his own and fortified it. And though Denethor found it at first comforting that the great watchtower was in the hand of a powerful ally, he still disliked the fact that this ally was in no way sworn to the service of the Stewards - and he seemed altogether a little too powerful for Denethor's comfort. 

But he did not confront his father about the wizard, for their relationship had been strained at best as it was. Ecthelion was a man of wisdom, and with what power was left to him, he began to strengthen his realm against the assault of Mordor, for he had no doubt that sooner or later it would come. With this Denethor whole-heartedly agreed, but to his great dismay, his father also encouraged all Men of worth from near of far to enter his service, and to those who proved trustworthy, he gave rank and regard. 

Denethor often voiced his dislike about his father filling the court with strangers, no matter how able they might be, and leaving the old, well-proved families of Gondor out of consideration. Small wonder that many of the blood of Westernesse left the City in dismay and returned to their lands in Lossornach or Lebennin or other parts of Gondor, and more and more great old houses and courts in the upper circles of the City were abandoned and started to decay. 

But Ecthelion never listened to the concerns of his son, choosing instead to follow the counsel of one captain, who came to him from Rohan, from the service of King Thengel, though not one of the Rohirrim himself. No-one knew who this captain truly was; not his true name, nor in what land he was born, though all could see that he was from the blood of Westernesse, too, for he was tall, dark-haired and grey-eyed, as only the Men of Númenórean blood could be; and the Men in Gondor called him Thorongil(6), for he was swift and keen-eyed, and wore a silver star upon his cloak. 

Ever since this haughty stranger set foot into his father's court, Denethor's life became one of bitter competition, for though he was a proud and valiant man, and more kingly than any man that had appeared in Gondor for many lives of Men - and above all these, he was wise also, and far-sighted and learned in lore -, ever was he placed second to Thorongil in the hearts of Men and the esteem of his own father. 

This filled his heart with bitter wrath against this stranger who seemed to possess the trust not only the Steward but that of that shrewd wizard, Mithrandir, too, and Denethor could not shake off the thought that Mithrandir had something to do with the spell the stranger seemed to have every one in Minas Tirith under. 

What else could have made Ecthelion value a mere captain, and a homeless strider to that, higher than his only son(7)? Denethor knew his own worth, and he knew as well, that never had he brought shame upon his father, neither in battle nor in council; indeed, many of the Kings of old even would have been proud to have a son and Heir like him: faithful to his Lord and father and determined to defend his land at any costs. 

Why, then, did Ecthelion prefer one of his servants to his own Heir? This was a question that had tormented Denethor all his life, and moved him to do some thorough research on the end of the North-kingdom. And though he found naught that could confirm his suspicions, he doubted not that Thorongil, or what ever his true name might have been, must be of very high birth, indeed. 

There were no records in the secret library of the Stewards left that would tell aught about the fate of that ragged House, long bereft of lordship and dignity. If any one of that line was still alive, they most likely served other Lords: those who were able to keep their lands and their reign. Yet Mithrandir's involvement with this... Thorongil let him suspect a secret plan to supplant the Stewards who had ruled Gondor for hundreds of years with devotion and kept the land safe, with some late offspring of a fallen House that had proved unable and unworthy to reign. 

/Not in my life, they would not/, thought Denethor grimly, descending from the secret chamber to his office again. /My heart is not infested with the folly of my father, and I shall never bend my knee before any usurper from the North. Ere would I die by my own hand! I am the rightful Lord of this City, in peace or in war alike, and I shall leave my chair to a son after me, who is his own master!/ 

He sat behind his desk to study some of the reports that came in during the day and sighed, unable to focus, for his mind was elsewhere: following his sons, both of which were far away and both of which he loved very much, no matter what other people might think - no matter that most of the time he was unable to show it. 

For indeed, the sons whom gentle Finduilas gave him were the only lights in his long and hard life, and watching them growing to manhood the only joy that sweetened his days spent with the bitter tasks of never-ending duty. Boromir, five years the elder, was like him in face and pride, but little else, and mayhap this was the reason Denethor loved him so much. 

Boromir was a man after the sort of King Eärnur of old: fearless and strong but caring little for lore, save the tales of old battles, though his father made him learn other things, too, which he held for important. Some thought the Heir of the Steward would find delight in arms, but Denethor knew better. He knew that his firstborn loathed the war, for he hated to see his land ruined and its people suffering. 

Yet his own honour allowed him not to sit in the safety of Minas Tirith while others bled on the battlefields, not as long as he was able to wield a sword to protect those whose life was entrusted to him. And though he was in endless anguish for his life, Denethor admired his son even more for this. 

Yet in spite of his love, Denethor was not blind to his Heir's faults. He feared that his pride (that he inherited from his father) would be his downfall one day. That and his honesty that made him believe that other people would be just as honest to him. 

Oh, if only Denethor could have relied upon his younger son! Faramir was so much alike him: he read the hearts of Men as shrewdly as his father and was a lover of lore - and gifted with foresight, too. He could have stood behind the throne of his brother, supporting him with counsel and useful insight, and between the two of them Gondor could have flourished, despite the grave danger threatening from the East. 

But alas! Faramir was not hard enough to use for the good of Gondor what he learnt from the minds of Men, for it moved him to pity rather than scorn; and he fell under the spell of Mithrandir early on, and became the wizard's pupil, eager to learn what he could from him, to the great dismay of his father, who could have taught him just as well, would he have asked. 

How could Denethor trust his second-born ever again? 

It saddened him greatly, for so he could not let Boromir be influenced by his brother's judgements any longer, and now he had to break them apart by force, regardless the love that had been between his sons since childhood. For though no jealousy or rivalry had arisen between them ever, not for their father's favour nor for the praise of men, Faramir now was not his own master any more, and no-one could truly tell if he could be freed from the wizard's spell, ever. 

This was the most bitter disappointment of Denethor's life, worse even than the one about his father's heart turning towards a stranger. For he had laid great hopes upon Faramir's gifts and how they could have served Gondor and the reign of his brother; but now the most he could still hope for was his second son staying faithful to his own father. 

And even that seemed doubtful to him. 

Yet even more shaken he was, when by chance he detected Boromir's hidden feelings towards his own brother. Indeed, he almost lost his mind in his wrath and utter shame. That such a dirty thing could have stained the blood of his House was something he never thought of, not even in his worst nightmares.(8) 

Now he understood why Boromir had taken no wife yet (though in families of high Númenórean birth it was custom to wed at a mature age; he did so himself(9), why he reacted so badly to his father's proposal to wed Éowyn of Rohan, why he was never seen in the company of women, save the rare occasions in the court when he could not avoid it. And given the closeness between the brothers, Denethor began to fear that they might give in to the temptation, even though Faramir seemed not to return his brother's feelings. 

This was why Denethor started prying upon his Heir through the Seeing Stone, and this was, too, why he finally decided to let him go and seek out Imladris. Not that the need of Gondor would not be dire enough; they fought with their backs against the wall, and if Isildur's Bane should be some great weapon of the Enemy reappearing, Gondor was its first likely target. So, the counsels that should be held in Imladris might prove vital for Gondor, indeed. 

But the true reason he sent his firstborn away was to put a great distance between him and the subject of his sick desire. Mayhap the long and perilous journey shall give him the time to reflect upon his misguided feelings, now, that they were revealed, and consider what his duty towards his land and his House demanded from him. 

The encounter between him and the Lady Éowyn was, at least, a small reason for hope. They seemed to come to an understanding. Alas, the Seeing Stone gave sight alone, though the Steward would like very much to know what his son and the gold-haired shieldmaiden of the North were talking about(10). Nevertheless, Éowyn seemed strong enough to handle Boromir's tempers - and fair above all words even in the Ancient Tongue of the Elves. So there was hope that she would even win the heart of him some day. Boromir respected strength and was not blind to beauty. 

Yet now he had vanished from the sight of the palantír, hidden by the silver veil of Elven magic, and Denethor felt bone-weary from the long and bitter struggle with the Stone. For as the power of the Enemy grew, it became increasingly difficult to bend the palantír to his own will - yet he could not avoid it. He needed the far-sight the Stone gave him, now, that all his well-thought plans seemed to fail, more than ever. 

He threw the reports aside. He would read them in the morrow; one night should not bear too great a significance. For now, he would return to the House of the Stewards, to his cold and empty bed that he had shared with no-one since his wife died, and try to rest. Mayhap if Finduilas had not left them so untimely, things could have taken a different turn. Or if he, himself, could have made his love more apparent, his sons had not tried to find comfort elsewhere. 

But it was too late for regrets already. He was who he was, and he could not change the cold hardness of his demeanour - or his heart. What he could offer was never enough. Not for his father, not for Finduilas, who withered and faded away between the stone walls of the Guarded City and the cold hand of her husband... not even for his sons who meant everything to him. 

An overwhelming feeling of utter defeat weighed upon his heart as he left the White Tower.  
  
And here this tale now truly endeth 

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * 

**End notes:**

1) Finduilas of Dol Amroth died young in the year 2988 of the Third Age, after a mere 12 years of marriage, when Boromir was 10 and Faramir only 5 years old.

2) Saruman's name in Sindarin is Curunír (the Quenya version would be Curumo). In ''The Two Towers'' Faramir tells Frodo that they called Gandalf Mithrandir, in Elf-fashion, so I presumed they would do so with Saruman, too.  
  
3) Isildur's brother, with whom he was the King of Gondor, while their father, Elendil the Tall, was King of Arnor. 

4) The year 2951 of the Third Age.

5) The year 2954 of the Third Age.  
  
6) The Eagle of the Star  
  
7) We don't know whether Denethor had any siblings; actually, I simply made up the fact that he was an only child, to make his jealousy even more understandable. 

8) This is the part were I actually don't follow my inspiration for this whole series, Dwimordene's story ''From the Other River Bank''. In my series Boromir is the only one in the Steward's family with an interest in his own gender.  
  
9) Denethor married in 2976 (Third Age), at the age of 46. Boromir is 41 years old when he dies in ''The Fellowship of the Ring'', so following Númenórean customs he still wasn't too late with marriage.  
  
10) You are better off than poor Denethor. You can read the whole conversation in ''The White Lady of Rohan'', the 2nd part of my Boromir-series. g 


End file.
